


Dystopia

by Evil_Little_Dog



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, Canon - Manga, Community: comment_fic, Community: fanfic_bakeoff, Community: fma_fic_contest, F/M, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evil_Little_Dog/pseuds/Evil_Little_Dog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  Sometimes, when the world falls down around you, all you have is hope that you can keep your loved ones safe.<br/>Disclaimer:  Arakawa would probably hate the things I do to her characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Words You Say

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This imagines a darker future than the one Arakawa gave us at the end of her story.

  
Award made by Sky Dark

XXX

There are words you say in this sort of situation, words meant to comfort. Certain turns of phrase. “It’s for the best.” “It was meant to be.” “It was time.”

Edward doesn’t say any of those, simply stands with his hands jammed in the pockets of his trousers, not knowing – caring – that this screwed up the line of his jacket. Beside him, Winry cries, the handkerchief pressed to her face doing nothing to stop the flow of tears. On her other side, Alphonse has sunk to the ground, face white, swallowing hard, and Edward knows his brother is this close to vomiting.

He forces himself to watch, not turn away, as the executioners are ordered to present arms. Winry buries her face in his shoulder and Edward wraps an arm around her. He’d wanted her to stay home but she refused – stubborn – not about to let him and Al face this alone.

Olivia Armstrong’s voice rings out clear through the cold morning air, announcing the crimes of the Amestrian Army against the citizens of Ishbal.

There are phrases of comfort you say in this sort of situation. A hoarse, “Don’t look,” Edward figures, is one of them, not letting Winry raise her head as the executioners fire their weapons.


	2. Dystopia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Waiting is so very difficult.

They were in hiding, like all the remaining alchemists after the war. 

If they were caught – no, that didn’t bear thinking on. But he did anyway.

He told her she should run. She’d laughed, tossing her bangs. There was no humor in it.

She told him she’d never leave him. He was thankful. And selfish. And told her he wished she would.

* * *

They were so very careful going outside. Hats to shield faces. Baggy, shapeless clothing. Beard to blur the line of his jaw. Hair cuts. 

“It’s just hair,” she whispers but he finds Winry later, weaving strands of yellow shades together, like mourning jewelry.

He touches her shorn head. Ignores the holes in her ears, from piercings that had never healed. 

She holds up three little hair wreaths. “One for you. One for me. One for Al.”

* * *

If they can make it east, they could travel the desert. Cross it to Xerxes. Leave Xerxes for Xing. Ling might take them in.

“It’s a good plan,” Al’s voice whispers to him in his memory. 

Four people might draw too much attention. Two people together, a man and a woman, a married couple seeking work, not so much. “Paninya and I, we’ll take a northerly route.” Alphonse had pointed it out on a map. “We’ll meet up in East City.” 

He and Winry have been in East City almost a week. Yesterday was the date for their meeting. 

* * *

Al and Paninya are now three days late. 

There’s an alley near the train station, not too full of refuse. He stays there, waiting for word. Waiting for Al. 

He wishes Winry were here with him but she’s found a job at one of the little vegetable stands. Her hands, made to create limbs for those without, were covered in dirt. Callouses hard won from working metal now bear stains from working with earth. She’s tired, in ways she’s never been before. 

He wants to bring her good news. He wants to bring her Al. He’s almost afraid to return to her empty handed, even though he knows Winry will understand. They mourn their losses together. At least Granny and the bastard colonel didn’t have to see what Amestris had become after the Promised Day. 

* * *

The day passes slowly from morning to noon, from noon to afternoon, from afternoon to dusk before he leaves his hiding spot near the station.

No Alphonse. No Paninya. No word. He hates being this worried. 

He hates even more returning to Winry without any news. He doesn’t miss the hope fading, a little more each day, from her eyes. 

_I promise._ He clenches his fists, automail whirring. _I promise we’ll get out of this. I promise we’ll be safe._ He cannot afford to think what might happen if he breaks that promise.

* * * 

Someone forgot the newspaper, the _East City News and Times_ , on the table at the café. He picks it up as he walks by, tucking it under his arm. 

News is important and hard won since the Promised Day. Despite the belief they were working for something better, it had backfired. The general populace couldn’t believe Fuhrer Bradley had been a monster. Some, seeing a chance to get back at the military for ruining lives (theirs, families, friends) called for not just reform but also a reckoning. The soldiers who fought in Ishbal almost seemed too easy a target.

He hated remembering the discussion with Hawkeye now, over the way things might end up.

Still, they had to keep moving forward. The loss of Mustang, of Hawkeye, of Major Armstrong and so many others wasn’t the end of the world. It just felt that way, sometimes.

* * *

Winry meets him at the door of their tiny, ramshackle room, a finger to her lips. 

Her hug is welcoming, more than he wants to think on, though as well as a greeting, she whispers information. “We have a visitor.” Stepping back, she lets him into the room, gesturing toward the shadowed corner. 

The scarred Ishbalan is not who he expects to see but he doesn’t react beyond an automatic, singing tension running through his body. The large man waits, quiet, for the shock to settle, then says in a voice barely carrying the length of the tiny room, “I can get you out of here.” 

He knows trust is a luxury he can ill afford to waste, right now, but, “My brother. Our friend.” He won’t leave Alphonse here. He can’t. Even to save himself. Especially not to save himself.

* * *

Winry could leave the country but he knows better than to argue with her about it. She would fight him every step of the way. That would draw too much attention. They have to remain invisible if they are going to escape. 

He knows she knows what he’s thinking from the glare on her face.

He’ll keep thinking it, too. _You already died once for me. I don’t want you to do it again._

Losing her again would undo him. Even if there were no lasting effects – not to Winry, not to the whole world – inside, he still ached from her loss. He still felt that cold, evil wind blow down his spine at the thought of her death. Every night, he buries his face in her hair and holds her close, afraid to let her go. Waking without her next to him makes him break out in a sweat. 

* * *

“I can wait for your brother,” the scarred man tells them. “You can travel ahead to Xerxes. The Xingese girl waits for us there with my people.”

The offer is a good one but… _Alphonse._ “He’s my little brother.” 

Winry folds her arms. “And I’m not going without Ed.” Her jutting jaw brooks no argument. “So we need a plan.” She can’t hold that expression, not while one of them is missing. 

He agrees, knowing that they should take the offer and run. Knowing they won’t. They couldn’t lose Al and Paninya, too. 

* * *


	3. Malposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Edward’s nightmare might be the truth.

Edward wakes with a shout, heart pounding, sweat breaking out over his body. The images play in his head as fresh as if they’d just happened – the bodies of men and women declared war criminals for their actions in Ishbal, the stench of blood and cordite in the air. His ports ache, a continuous throb of pain, and he understands what triggered the nightmare – thunder outside the building, the boom enough to make the windows rattle. 

“Ed?” Winry rises from their bedding, almost as fast as he realizes he’d been dreaming. She hugs him, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. Edward clasps his hands over hers. Her scent and warmth surround him, the familiarity of it more soothing than he wants to think. Turning his head, he nudges her cheek with the tip of his nose as she whispers, “Bad dream?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, swallowing. The last image, the one that shocked him right out of the nightmare – of Al, his bloodied body amongst those killed in retribution for Ishbal. His shivering prompts her to pull up the bedding, wrap it around them both. 

“He’s okay,” Winry whispers. Despite how quietly she speaks, her determination rings true. “He’ll come soon.” She tightens her arms around him, her embrace more than just comfort. Edward knows what protection feels like, and leans into her with a sigh. His body relaxes by slow degrees against her own. Maybe they were lying to each other to keep their hopes up. Why had he believed the military would protect their own? Why would he believe alchemists would still be considered a help to the people, rather than dangerous, something to be eradicated? 

“Yeah,” is what he says, agreeing with her, “and then.” Then they’d head East, to Xing, and Ling. 

Together.


	4. Tracks South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had to get South, and time was running out. (Al/Paninya)

  
Banner by Bay115

 

Paninya squeezed his hand, and Alphonse thought he was never so happy to have someone beside him. Traveling in a big group was hard – people took note of that. A couple traveling together, though, they weren’t quite as noticeable. It had been his plan to head north, splitting up from Edward and Winry, and meet up with them in about ten days. It wasn’t his fault that an Amestrian dissenter had blown up the train tracks, and it took almost a week for the tracks to be repaired. The materials had to be brought in, and the men, too, to repair the tracks, while the passengers made do with staying on the train, and buying foodstuffs from the nearby farm folk, who were making out well from this issue. 

The worst thing was, Alphonse could’ve repaired the tracks in a few minutes – but since the Ishbalan Civil War Trials, all alchemists were considered suspect, and if he even mentioned alchemy, it was likely he and Paninya would’ve been hauled back to Central City. 

Overhead, the sun beat down. Paninya, far more accustomed to the heat than Alphonse was, watched the men straining over the train tracks. Tugging the hat he wore down closer over his eyes, Alphonse itched to do something, anything, to hurry the repairs along. He wished he could get his head around what had happened in his country. Even though he’d witnessed the execution of alchemists who’d participated in the Ishbalan Civil War, he still couldn’t understand it. He remembered sinking to the ground as the rifles were raised and pointed at Colonel Mustang, who refused a blindfold, staring his shooters down. He remembered hearing the next day that First Lieutenant Hawkeye had committed suicide. He remembered the way that Major Armstrong had warned them that they should leave Amestris, now, quickly, telling them that his sister, Fuhrer Olivier Mille Armstrong, was taking no chances with alchemists who’d had any part in the overthrow of Fuhrer King Bradley – even those who’d fought at her side. 

“Al,” Paninya whispered, her grip on his hand tightening.

He barely heard her voice, too lost in his memories. How the hell had this happened? How had his world been spun so off its axis? Would he and his brother be hunted down next, even though they’d never been a part of the Ishbalan Civil War? What about Dr. Marcoh? Had he managed to get back into hiding, or was a hunt on for him, too? Why would anyone think it was a good idea to punish an entire group of people for something that had only happened because a few of them were following the orders given to them by others? 

“Well!” The voice startled Alphonse, enough that he glanced around in surprise, recognizing one of their fellow travelers, a man who reminded him a lot more than he was comfortable with of Major Kimbley. “It seems we’ll be able to resume our journey soon.” He nodded toward the tracks, and the men who were slapping each other’s backs in congratulations. 

A weary cheer broke out from the travelers, and the engineer shouted, his voice booming out his delight. “Track’s been fixed! Everyone, back on the train!” 

It wouldn’t be that fast, Alphonse knew; the engine would need to be stoked, and that would take time, but at least it wouldn’t be an all day thing. The stokers were already raking ashes out of the box, getting it ready for the wood they hauled out of the tender car. Still, within a few hours, they’d be moving again, and that would get him that much closer to his brother and Winry. 

And then, then, they could decide what they were going to do next. 

Alphonse swallowed hard, thinking that he didn’t want to leave Amestris. Mom was buried here. Dad, too. But if alchemists were going to be hunted, if he and Edward weren’t safe any more, it was time to go. 

A tug on his wrist brought his attention to the present again, and Alphonse glanced sideways at Paninya. She smiled, a little warily. “Ready to get on board?” she asked. 

He took another long look around, thinking this place looked a lot like Risembool. Like home. Nodding, Alphonse said, “Yeah. There’s nothing more to see here,” and let her drag him back to the train.


End file.
